


Not That Easy

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [34]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of an Argument, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: He leaves without another word and keeps walking.





	Not That Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Home, keep hold of my heart when I try to run away. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

He leaves without another word and keeps walking. Tears scrub at the edge of his eyes but the winter wind kicks them off of his face as fast as the damn things fall. The first block is the worst; he has to fight the urge to turn back, to swivel in the street and rush back home, up the stairs and through the kitchen and into the cross of Stevie’s arms. By the second, he’s reminding himself that Steve’s the one who started this, the one who said something he shouldn’t have, the one who broke the code that’s decades old and reached out for him, kissed him, backed him up against the mantle and made it all seem so fucking easy, like they should’ve been doing this all their lives, like they’ve been fucking fools not to.

By the third, he’s repeating it like a mantra: this is Steve’s fault, plain and simple. All his.

He should’ve known, Steve, that it wasn’t that easy. That they couldn’t shake off all the bad shit the world’s thrown their way by pressing their bodies together and drinking in each other’s skin. It wasn’t possible, no matter how fevered Steve’s mouth was or how hard Bucky got or how loudly they breathed, air and air and air until all he’d been able to hear was Steve, a rain of soft hot sounds that drifted down his neck and over his throat and crested at his collarbone until he’d leaned back just enough to pull his shirt off and toss it away and then Steve’s mouth had slid lower and Bucky had clutched at his hair and begged for that kiss everywhere.

When he hits Amsterdam, he turns uptown and starts pounding sidewalk towards the water, towards an old haunt: the docks. He doesn’t realize where he’d headed until he’s almost halfway there and it’s like a boot in the gut, but then it makes sense, too, because he’s operating on memory, on memories almost a century old, and it may be subconscious but it ain’t mindless, to be seeking comfort in the past, in a long-lost sense of routine.

The man he’d been then, before the war, would he have acted this way, after, if the universe had given him his heart’s desire? Did he know what desire was then? He sure as shit thought he had. Desire was Moira from the dive bar down the street, she of the great tits and wandering hands. Desire was Frances, the daughter of his dock boss, who lingered in her daddy’s office on payday for weeks until she finally caught his eye. Desire was the line of girls in the dance halls, the ones who winked at him in the street, the rich girls he picked up on Fridays when he could fake it for a little while, pretend to be flush with cash.

No.

Desire was deprivation, it was all about what he wanted but couldn’t have. Desire was waking up hard and having to wait until Steve was in the shower to do something about it. Desire was the women who said no, who brushed off his best line, who smiled when he tipped his hat--hey, no hard feelings--and moved down the bar to the next. It was the ache in his chest when he had an early shift, when he took one last look at Stevie, the string bean, crashed out crosswise in his skinny bed, snoring. He couldn’t name it then, couldn’t have said what it was or how he felt; he hadn’t known a damn thing about desire, hadn’t wanted to, had been interested only in what was easy, what he didn’t have to fight for, what he didn’t have to think about, much less understand.


End file.
